


The End of the World

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Croatoans, Don't Judge Me, Episode: s05e04 The End, I Messed With The Episode, Loss of Grace, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'When Castiel wakes up, he's pointing towards a cloud.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the World

_“We're going,” they said, “to the end of the world.”_

_So they stopped the car where the river curled,_

_And we scrambled down beneath the bridge_

_On the gravel track of a narrow ridge._

 

 

 

When Castiel wakes up, he's pointing towards a cloud. There is a rock, digging into his back. It all smells green; it washes over him, soaking into his pores, consuming everything else.

The cloud is white, and broad. It spreads its fronds, over the skyline; a single blot, in the midst of all that blue.

 _He's gone_ , is the first thing he thinks.

Castiel closes his eyes, and blacks out.

 

 

_On the day Dean first kissed him, he was battered. They'd been hunting Croats. It hadn't worked, because it never did. Dean was smiling, easily; one arm around his shoulders, bodies aligned._

_Castiel had been there before, he was sure. He had felt it - felt everything - and it was Dean. The old Dean. Dean of the dusk and the roses, with his metal-black car and his careful hands - Dean, who had rubbed steel until it was spotless, and stood before his brother, and felt nothing but love._

_He had leaned in, and then his face had been in Dean's hands, and Dean's lips were against his. It only lasted a moment. Dean's lips were chapped, and hot. There were flakes of skin, around their edges._

_In Castiel's chest, something grew._

_Dean stepped back; eyes narrowed, gauging his reaction. Dean stepped back, and narrowed his eyes, and walked away._

_Afterwards, Castiel stood still, staring at the far wall. He went to the storage box, and drank the first thing he could find, in two gulps. As he placed the bottle down, his fingers shook._

_The breathlessness remained._

 

 

When he comes to, there's a man standing over him. He's tall; dusky skin, missed hair, large hands. In the sunlight, his eyes glint.

"Dean," Castiel says. The sound catches in his throat.

The man shakes his head.

 

 

There are bodies, all over the ground. They have their hands unfurled; their legs spread; their eyes wide open, heads tilted towards the sky. The Croats are in there with them. Holes gape in their chests, their skulls: black, and empty. Torn apart.

Risa. She has blood on her chest. Her hair's falling down over her forehead, in clumps. She's curled up on herself, one hand around her gun, clutching it.

Chuck. He's looking up, even now. His gun's somewhere in the distance. He might have tried to go after it - he might not. There are copper strands, on his forehead - too many to count. He could be asleep. They all could.

Castiel stares, and stares, and turns his head away.

To his side, Other Dean's breaths shake.

 

 

_Dean grew thinner. Scars lined his hands - thick, and pink. When they were alone, Castiel did his best to heal - summons up sparks of grace, and pushed them in, making Dean gasp, from between gritted teeth._

_They sat on the floor of the cabin. Dean's palms were bloody. There were cuts, running across them, right through the dips and the folds._

_Castiel took Dean's hands in his, and held them to his mouth, and blew light into them._

_Dean's eyes never left him._

 

 

They run into a Croat at the end of the street.

It's one of the guys from camp. He's wearing a yellow bandanna, and he's lurching around. Other Dean freezes. Around Castiel's back, his hand clenches fabric.

The Croat turns towards them; stepping slowly, carefully. Its eyes land on them. Its face contorts.

Other Dean fires, and grabs his arm, and runs.

Castiel follows.

 

 

Other Dean's quiet, when they get to shelter. He just barges down the door, with his shoulder; pulls him inside, one arm looped over him. There are pictures, on the walls: a man, and a woman, and a dog. The dog's big, and grey. Wolf-like.

The carpet's soft, and the walls are hard. The mattress has lumps in it. There are flower patterns, running along the skirting board. Castiel drinks something cold. It trickles down his throat, pools in his stomach; warms his hands, his feet. Sends pins and needles to them.

"End of the world," Castiel says, "and we still have the whiskey."

Other Dean's face is flat.

 

 

He's got dirt all over him - scratched into the lines, the bruises, the scrapes. Castiel doesn't comment.

"I thought you were meant to be home."

Other Dean turns away from him; stares out, towards the skyline.

"So did I."

 

 

_The Grace began to fade. The glow grew dimmer, and dimmer. He kept his mouth shut; listened at meetings, standing at the back. Against the fabric of his shirt, he itched - itched, and itched._

_They were called amphetamines, and they came in a grey packet. It crinkled, as he touched it. Dean was waiting, in his room. Castiel stepped towards him, and held onto him, and pushed him backwards, onto the bed._

_Dean clutched at him, and swore._

 

 

That night, Castiel cooks. At least, he almost cooks. There isn't anything left to cook with, really. Just things in tins, and all you need for that is a can opener, and a stove. They have toasted pineapple chunks, drenched in fish sauce. Other Dean stares at his like it's diseased.

"Eat up. It'll get cold." Castiel spoons up a piece of his own, chews, and swallows. It tastes like motor oil. "God. That's...that's bad."

Other Dean peers downwards, towards his plate. There is a chip, on its edge. Otherwise, it's pretty clear. Castiel's own has a crack, running down its centre. "What even is it?"

Castiel shrugs. "Fruit, maybe? Honestly, I didn't read the label."

Other Dean rubs hands over his eyes. From beneath his palms, Castiel can see his smile. "Jesus, Cas."

"Fruit is supposed to be nourishing," Castiel protests, "and fish contains high amounts of protein. Do you know how many minerals you're getting from this meal? How much vitamin D?"

"This ain't a meal. This is roadkill."

"What 'til you've eaten real roadkill. This'll seem like a delicacy."

Other Dean breathes out; lowers his hands. "Broccoli don't make chocolate taste any better."

Castiel spears a chunk of pineapple, slicing it neatly in half. "I like broccoli."

Other Dean snorts. "Yeah, that's just 'cause it has vitamin F, or whatever."

"Vitamins B1, A and E."

"Know it all," Dean says, without any real heat.

Castiel smiles, slightly. It feels strange, on his face. "Eat your roadkill."

 

 

There is a medicine cabinet, thank God. Castiel finds it in the bathroom. The door isn't padlocked - not like the one back at camp. This Dean doesn't know much. He must be pretty shaken up. The real Dean would've found it in a heartbeat.

Tylenol, the bottle reads. Acetaminophen.

The capsules are white, and plain. They fit neatly, into the palm of his hand. He considers them, for a moment.

When the door opens, he's propped up against the sink, arms around his knees. The bottle's on the floor, a few feet away. He could probably nudge it, if he wanted to.

"Cas," Other Dean says, "Cas-"

"I knew he was going. I knew what he was going to do. I just..." Castiel breaks off; takes a gulp of air. It's cold. "I thought he'd have more brains. I mean, he was an idiot, sure, but..." His head spins - and he's gasping, and the air's rushing past his ears, and it's beautiful. It's fucking beautiful.

He spreads his arms wide, against the chill.

"I'm flying, Dean. I'm flying."

Other Dean's watching him - like he's a bomb, and liable to explode. Castiel doesn't blame him. "OK," Other Dean says. "No."

 

 

_They danced together, one night. Music crackled over the gramophone; it was the two of them, ad Dean's cabin, and the wind rattling the walls. They'd both been drunk. Castiel was staggering; Dean was holding him upright, chuckling a little too loudly. They spun around in circles - the walls flew by, a blur of wood chips and posters and beaded curtains. They'd been dizzy; clinging to one another, lost in the storm._

_Castiel had held him, without a second thought._

_In the dim light, Dean's eyes almost glowed._

 

_The next day, Castiel's back was littered with bruises._

 

 

The man carries him into the bedroom - hauls him up, and drags him along the floor. His feet squeak, on the planks. He's probably leaving a trail. There are hot hands, against his skin. Castiel has to fight not to lean towards them.

"You know," Castiel says. There's meant to be something else - but a step rises up, and he half-stumbles over it.

"You know what?"

"You know," Castiel says again, "I could hear your prayers."

Against his side, Other Dean tenses. "What?"

"In Hell. I could hear them."

Other Dean starts walking, again. His fingers leave bruises, in Castiel's sides. He can't restrain his sigh. "I wasn't praying."

"That's what you think."

Other Dean doesn't speak. His eyes are lidded, and dark.

 

 

_The Croats came in a pack. One second, they were alone. It's a small group; him, Chuck, Risa, Becky, and, of course, Dean. Dean walked purposefully - striding out, each step ringing. Castiel struggled to keep pace with him; so, he lagged behind, slightly, sliding in beside Risa. Becky was a few feet ahead, laughing at whatever Chuck just said. Dean joined in. Around his eyes, the laughter lines crinkled._

_And then there was a Croat, and it was coming around the corner, and Becky was gone._

_Chuck screamed her name - lunged towards her. Castiel wrapped arms around his chest, and grabbed him back - pulled him away, and around the corner, thrusting his gun forwards. The method was ungainly, but effective. Chuck was still yelling - Becky, Becky, Becky, over and over again, like that's all there was left in the world. Becky._

_Dean fired at them. He looked back, and Castiel's eyes meet his._

_The Croats went down._

_On the way back to camp, Chuck stopped moving. He just sat there, staring out of the window: blank. As they stepped outside, Dean put a hand on his shoulder. Chuck just looked at it, and didn't talk at all._

 

 

Castiel is laid down on the same bed - more roughly, this time. The mattress-springs dig into his flesh. They'll leave marks, just like all the others.

If this was the real Dean, they'd be kissing, by now. There'd be fingertips, on his hips - hard and tough and thick, running over him. There'd be the pain in his back, and the crick in his neck, and the thrumming in his veins - and his hands in Dean's hair, and Dean's hands on his waist, saying more, more, more-

Other Dean is staring at him, eyes big and green and grey. His breaths are coming out fast. Around Castiel's wrists, his hands have tightened.

"What happened to you?"

Castiel chuckles. It sounds hollow. "You did."

Other Dean jerks back, touch falling away. Feet slap, and a door slams - and Castiel is left alone, on a big, empty bed. He lowers his hand, and exhales, and grins, up to the ceiling.

 

 

_One time, Dean took him to the forest. Castiel was wearing Dean's shirt. It was big, and black, with holes in the sleeves. When it started to get dark, Dean gave him his jacket, too. That didn't have any holes, and was warm. It smelled of him._

_Dean didn't talk much - just led the way. Castiel kept up a commentary, but after a while, he shut up. Trees are only so interesting to discuss, never mind hear about._

_In the old days, he could've heard them sing._

_After a couple of miles, they reached the clearing. It wasn't really a clearing, per se; more of a patch of scrub, with a few bits of wood scattered around. It might have been a park, once. It was too rotted to tell._

_Dean sat on one stump, and Castiel sat beside him. There was a breeze; it flickered through the leaves, making them fall. One of them landed in Dean's hair. He brushed it off, without smiling. Before it fell, Castiel caught it; brushed some of the sweat from Dean's cheek._

_Dean had pushed him down into the forest floor, and claimed him all over again._

_Somehow, as the pine cones pierced his skin, Castiel wasn't surprised._

 

 

When Castiel wakes, it is to the fluttering of wings. He'd know the sound anywhere - know it in a heartbeat, from across an ocean. He sits bolt upright, heart hammering in his throat.

"Brother," he says.

In an instant, he knows that he's wrong.

 

 

_When the Grace went, it was a Tuesday._

_They'd come out of nowhere - swarming over the jeeps, dragging them out. Somewhere, Risa was hollering at Chuck - telling him to get back, that he'd be killed. He didn't appear to be listening._

_Dean was lying on his back, in the dirt, with a Croat standing over him._

_His gun was a few feet back - right to the edge of the path, beside the fence - too far to reach._

_Castiel didn't run for it. He didn't think._  

_He acted._

 

 

By the time Castiel reaches the other room, the thing's already there.

It's standing beside Dean - tall and regal, filling the space. Its vessel looks new; recently acquired.

In Castiel's chest, Jimmy Novak's quiet heart beats.

"Dean," he says.

 

 

_It hurt._

 

_It was agony._

 

_They stretched from his shoulder blades - fanning outwards, in a ring of darkness and shadows and light, humming and thrumming, bursting and budding and binding, creeping towards the sunlight, crawling from their stakes, reaching up, up, up-_

 

_Castiel's lungs rattled._

 

_He could feel heartbeats._

 

_He could feel heartbeats; all around him, hurried and flurrying. Risa; wielding a blade with deadly precision, curls fanning around her face. Chuck; wild-eyed and dancing, knocking a Croat's head back, grimacing as its neck snapped. He could feel sea breezes, and ocean currents, and the cries of birds, somewhere far, far away, with long, green grass and bright, hot sunshine._

_He could feel the stars, and the sun, and the moon. He could feel the breaths of the air, and the tang of the dirt, and the taste of the blood in his mouth. He could feel black, puckered skin, and the bitterness of liquid, and the sting of emptiness. He could feel everything he had been given a everything he had been denied._

 

_He could feel it. He could feel everything._

 

 _And, most of all, he could feel_ him.

 

 

The creature hasn't moved. It's staring - mouth slightly open, nerves strung tight. It's probably terrified. It's probably broken. It's close - so close. It's close. He's close.

He's nervous. He's scared, but he's being brave, because Dean's right beside him. He's terrified, but he's trying to hold it together - and Castiel knows, because he's always known. He knows better than anyone.

He's so close - so close. Close enough to touch.

Castiel doesn't.

Dean looks at the ground.

"Dean," Castiel says. The floorboards rock, below - and he can hear his heart in his ears, drumming and beating, chanting stay. Stay. Stay with me.

 

 

_He could feel freckles, and motor-oil, and ashes. He could feel leather jackets, rubbing up against his borrowed flesh. He could feel panic - rising in his gut, and a voice in his head, and reason and right and wrong and righteousness._

_Dean was lying on his back, and the Croat was standing over him, and it was all going to be over._

_So, he spread his wings, and channelled his grace, and pushed - pushed into the darkness, and the smoke - pushed into lazy afternoons, and cordite, and sharp words, and bruises._

 

_The world fragmented._

 

_There was bile, in his mouth. Salt. Blood._

_He gagged; spat, into the earth._

_His coat was torn to ribbons. It blew around him, as he picked himself up; strips of fabric, wafting in the wind. He pulled himself forwards. The ground was like ice._

_"Dean," he said, cradling him close, "I'm here."_

_"Cas," Dean said. "Castiel." The last word was a breath - blown out, in a feather-fine gust. It was warm, against his cheek. Castiel could have shivered._

_"I'm here. I'll stay. Always." He took Dean's hand; laced their fingers together._

_"Cas," Dean said, again. Took a breath._

_Squeezed his palm._

 

 

Dean could stay.

They could go travelling, around the country. Sleep in the Impala; kill some Croats. Go dancing in the firelight. Sing until their throats are raw, and bloody. Stain their hands, and stain their sheets.

But this isn't Dean.

It isn't his Dean.

This is a Dean from a different land; Dean from a time when things were different. This is s different man. He belongs to another Castiel - the same Castiel standing between them, hair mussed, shoes wet.

This isn't his Dean.

He's somebody else.

And he could be all that neither of them were.

 

 

_They slid into the jeep, side by side. Dean put it into gear. It started quickly. He always had been good with cars._

_"We'll sort it out. We'll fix this."_

_Castiel exhaled. Outside the window, the buildings pressed, and stifled._

_Castiel moves his thumb; forms circles, tracing over indents. Dean's nails were clipped short._

_"What's there to fix?"_

_Dean swallowed, and pressed._

_He didn't let go._

 

 

"Look after him," Castiel says.

The creature nods. Its coat-tails lie still; pressed into oblivion. He's worked hard on it - trying to keep everything spick and span, neat and tidy. Seeking to impress.

Dean nods, too. It's nearly simultaneous.

Castiel smiles.

"Go."

The thing's eyes are blue - lit from within, some might claim. As if by magic. As if by fire. As if by hope.

 

Castiel looks into them, and returns the gesture.

Once. Only once.

 

  _Look after him._

 

 

Dean steps forward - his movements are charged, and jagged - and he's Dean. Dean. 

Dean.

"Cas-"

 

Castiel smiles, and shapes his name. 

 

The Other Castiel raises a hand.

 

Castiel doesn't stop him.

 

 

_Heat._

 

_Heat._

 

_Heat._

 

 

A flurry of flame, licking up the walls - Castiel shields his eyes with his hands, ducking downwards. The heat is searing - intense - and it's everywhere, and everything, and he can't think through it, can't think around it-

 

He's back in the Pit, soaring forwards, fellows falling left and right - and their voices in his mind, urging him on, willing him forwards - following the brightness of a single, untarnished soul. 

 

 

And it's over.

The world stills.

Castiel blinks; straightens.

 

 

The room is empty.

The man is gone; the angel is gone.

There is no more sound.

 

 

The silence echoes.

Outside, a dog barks - loud, and sharp, and clear. A bang. A bang.

A bang.

 

 

_When their lips meet, Dean tastes of rain, and midnight, and promises._

_Castiel kisses back, and suckles sweet lips, and doesn't think at all._

 

 

_In his chest, a single pulse rings._

 

 

 

 

 

Deep within the gloom, Castiel tilts his head back, towards the swinging bulb, and opens his palms, and begins to laugh.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry from 'The End of the World' by Dana Gioia, which I can't praise highly enough.


End file.
